


Pílagrímr

by PomoneCorse



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen, Viking AU, aka John being John, descriptions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 01:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PomoneCorse/pseuds/PomoneCorse
Summary: From Old Norse, "pilgrim"They are missionaries, she learns, from a southern faith. Family, and a close one at that. Three brothers, a sister, and their followers, priestesses and warriors and skalds; a message, and it needs to spread. Their leader speaks convincingly, charmingly, but his siblings are as dangerous as he. Dalla watches them all in turn, and learns which poems work best, which news they listen to.





	Pílagrímr

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClockworkCourier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/gifts).



> If you haven't seen it already, [radiojamming](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com/tagged/viking-au) has been working on a Viking AU. I loved the idea so much I had to write, even a little, in that verse.  
> For reference, here's a [Viking Jacob](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com/post/175306716856/img-i-just-read-your-viking-au-for-fc5-and-was) , and here's a  
> [Viking Faith.](https://www.tumblr.com/reblog/175311242671/lHj5tA4F)  
> And this is on [my tumblr,](http://mademoisellegush.tumblr.com/post/175349344435/p%C3%ADlagr%C3%ADmr) if you wish to read it there.  
> Kodi is radiojamming's Cody (and depending on how they decide to go with setting-ized names i'll come back and edit)

Words have always run deep in Dalla's bones. Words and images, twisting, dripping from her tongue, stirring blood and dreams, sharing stories and the people who made them. Her crone of a grandmother said she must have drunk the Mead of Suttungr; she disagrees.  
She simply knows the power the tales hold, from deep within warrior’s halls to the simplest fire shared in the woods. She was raised suckling from legends, walked with living god-chosen heroes- her repertoire includes both living and dead figures, glorified, exalted. People will always love poems, will wish to hear of themselves and their likes. So it is no surprise when the wolf-cloaked warrior asks for- no, demands- them at every stop on the road.

  
The first nights she travels northward with the strange group, one skald amongst a handful, she listens.

They are missionaries, she learns, from a southern faith. Family, and a close one at that. Three brothers, a sister, and their followers, priestesses and warriors and skalds; a message, and it needs to spread. Their leader speaks convincingly, charmingly, but his siblings are as dangerous as he. Dalla watches them all in turn, and learns which poems work best, which news they listen to. When it’s her turn to entertain for the evening, she has an idea of what to say.  
She starts with something safe- perhaps not the gods and their adventures, not with how that had turned out for the previous poet. Hers is a bawdy tale, light and perfect for the energy running through the mead hall. Her fingers first drum the rhythm of the words on the bare skin of her arms, and then syllables flow like the ale running through the hall. When she gathers and starts to strum her harp, the words carry over the din of the feast, clear like the clash of well made swords.   
But as the night goes on, mead fire in her gut, she feels she can do better. So must the leaders of this group, sitting like conspirators at their table, not even bothering to glance her way. Downing her mug, she launches into one of her own pieces, untested so far. She’s anxious, sweat running down her spine, under her cloak, like this is her first time entertaining. It’s not as bawdy as the previous piece, though the subject herself might be.  
For this is about a friend, a fearsome shield maiden from the northern lights. Who might not appreciate the fact she’s about to get turned into a god-blessed hero, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right? Aesir know she might even enjoy the attention. She plays with the lowest cords of her instrument, voice pitched deep.  
“ _The bright iron of her blades_  
Her mother raised at birth;  
From fires of divine forges  
Destined for her hands.  
Valkyrie blood within  
Pushed god-blooded Kodi   
To a most treacherous path;  
Glorious battles won.”  
Some of those still conscious stir, content to listen to the new poem. The strange leaders of this group don’t visibly react. If not for the smallest flicker of their eyes in the golden glow of the fire, she would say they had stopped listening. It makes sense that the most war-like would like epic stories- she searches for an appropriate picture to paint. With an entire horn’s worth of mead in her belly and more than a little aggressive wariness towards these strangers, she weaves her tale. It is simple enough in form, rhyme practiced for hours after the events. Kodi, daughter of a Valkyrie, had shared in her mother’s battle prowess, she informs the hall. For many stanzas the hero warrior trains and seeks out worthy opponents to prove her worth. When she’s sure of having the attention of most everyone, she tells of the woman’s battle against Jormungandr, giant snake of the sea. Descriptions of their forms and acts carry the poem to the last ember, a long and gory fight Kodi herself had recounted with bloodlust in her eyes. When she stops, those around her shove ale and heady fruit wines in her hands, drinking till she can’t see straight. Not bad for an original work. Satisfied with her haul, Dalla grabs the last of the roasted fowl, accepts the mead a blushing girl hands her. She deliberately doesn’t look long at the head of the table, uncomfortable with the way the leaders sitting there stare, the light bending in ways it shouldn’t around them. There is something dangerous beneath their seams, wolves in their eyes.  
She beds down with the sleeping revellers already on the ground, warm bodies at her back anchors in the dark.

She wakes to green fumes seeping in and the beating of the drums, high and clear music coming from outside. Rubbing the sleep from her face, she sees the priestess leads Seiđr, ceremonial clothes eye-catching in the morning sun. The blonde stands on a hastily erected raised platform, seiðstafr in hand. It’s a pretty staff, brass inlaid with green gems. Almost as noticeable as the priestess herself, head rolling back in the middle of a trance, long hair swaying with her black lambskin hood.

The crowd -an unusual mix of both men and women, but everything this group has been doing is bizarre- chants along, holy words heady with the smell of burning henbane. One of the acolytes throws the augury bones to the spirit board, and the green fumes overtake Dalla's mind.

It is a blissful state.

* * *

The next time her turn to entertain comes up again, the group has travelled a few leagues further northward. She knows some of their names now, warriors and servants alike. There’s Dagny who likes tales of the elves; Brunhilde who maintains the shields and lets her sleep at her side after the long walks; little Thorvald friendly with every adult in the group and easy with his affection.  
There’s also the leaders of this group, strange as they may be. The priestess, turn by turn Rachel for her brothers, Ástriđr for everyone else, is the eeriest. She talks softly, in a cloak of pale green like Hel’s own skin, glides over the ground like giant raven wings. Her name serves her well, Dalla notices, for she is almost divinely beautiful. Her stave is a dark and pretty thing, a contrast to the pale sickly green of her clothes.

The youngest of the three men is an energetic one, his words gliding smooth like the best skalds she ever knew- fitting, for it seems to be his role. His siblings name him Jón, the followers Hrókr- crow. He picks at people, at things, like carrion; she avoids him like the dark ravens of battlefields. He wears his own stave proudly on his skin, near every piece of bare flesh branded.

He’s also one of the most bloodthirsty people she ever met. On the third day of their march, he throws a man to the ground. Coward, he names him, coward and kinslayer. Shock spreads through the crowd, and he uses it well. Jón looks to his siblings, eyes wild, and forces the kinslayer to his knees. He murdered another follower- and since they are all family this is the worst crime of all. The sobbing man begs, voice hoarse, for forgiveness, for the mercy of decapitation; none speak in his defense until the brother in the gray cloak nods. Jón grins. If her tongue is sharp, his is silver, and she finds even herself nodding along to suggestion of the Blood Eagle. One of the worst tortures she knows of; he delights in drawing it out.

She can only think of verse, eyes fixed on the gory spectacle.  
_Þar fundu þeir Hálfdan hálegg_ , …  
Carving the eagle on the bare skin of his back with his broad sword, Jón cuts the ribs to groin, pulls the lungs out; blood spattered on his face. At last, the man dies, silent and choking on missing organs.  
. _..Ok gaf hann Óðni til sigrs sèr._

The walk northward continues in silence.

Their leader, surprisingly -or unsurprisingly? this group itself is so strange-, is the second eldest. Jósepr, his family name him; Ásvaldr, his followers. The first time she hears it, she coughs back her laughter, valuing her tongue too much to openly mock a man who thinks the name “divine ruler” is his. Not very skald-like, but her position is nowhere near secure enough for mockery. It fits him, though. The man gathers skalds around him like a court, like a jarl might. The branded stave on his face a beacon as they listen to him.

To what end, she wonders, as more and more people join the ranks of his followers. But not all are simple folks- the eldest and last, warrior to the bone, trains a small army. Jakob, Einarr- a lone berserker, clad in wolf’s skin, and just as strange as his siblings.  
The last one surprises her before the feast starts, blocking the doors to the hall.  
“You were the one who sung of the Valkyrie shield maiden.”  
It’s not a question, she wants to snark.  
“You mean Kodi?” She replies, forcing herself to relax, neck craning upwards to look him in the eye.  
“Obviously,” he sniffs, cheeks ruddy in the cold. “Do you have more tales about her?”  
Dalla wants to scoff at how rude he’s being, but that’s not bound to win her any favours.   
“Many of them, in fact. You wouldn’t believe what she’s like. Spirit like Hel’s own fire, and sword arm stronger than fifteen men.”  
"You know the Valkyrie personally,” he says again, more a fact than question.  
Oh. Oh no. Oh, by Freyja’s falcon plumes.  
“Yes, I do,” she forces herself to answer. “I will sing of her once more, if you wish.”  
Jakob looks caught off-guard.  
“That sounds- good.”  
And like that he lets her slip into the hall, where already the feast has started. She grabs one of the drinking horns from a table, starts tapping her rhythm on the wooden drum of her harp. This time she weaves the gods into her poem. It’s half testing the boundaries of what Jósepr allows the skalds, half love of the story itself. The tale itself is one of her favourites- trickery, deceit, victory of man over divine. It’s also about Kodi, like Jakob wants, and her teenage antics. She starts with a challenge from the hypothetical Valkyrie mother, of how her child must claim a divine blade through trials. From the first word, the wolf-skin warrior listens intently. Dalla knows how to speak, to sweep the room and maintain drunken gazes; she knows when she holds everyone’s attention. Building up from that divine order, she describes the travel into the gods’ world, the choice the shield maiden made to steal a feather from Huginn, one of the All Father’s ravens. There is no battle here, just wit and meticulous planning. Successful deceit, and Kodi goes back to her mother with sacred feather in hand, receiving her blessed sword in return.  
It’s as well received as the last - and Jón stands up drunkenly when it ends to drop his own cloak on her lap. It’s a heavy fur trimmed thing, a deep and dark blue, with a wide silver pin forged in an intricate knot. When she accepts it the man stumbles back to his seat, back to his siblings. She wraps it over her, delighted as she runs calloused fingers through the soft fur. So delighted that she almost misses the hard stare Jósepr gives her, his stave a dark omen.

  
So goes the second song. 

* * *

As they travel further northward, the people ask less and less for her stories. Even the other skalds gather around Jósepr and his siblings, listen to strange tales of doom and glory ominous in the lengthening autumn nights. The only one who routinely stops and demands any of her tales is the berserker. He must be enraptured by the subject matter; Kodi would love it, she thinks, as she launches into another retelling of her friend’s trials. He repays her with heavy silver pieces, once with an amulet bearing the group’s sigils, once with a small seax. The handle is smooth bone, its short iron blade decorated with runes. She tucks it at her waist and resolutely doesn’t think about it.

Jakob finds her again, the third night she must entertain. The group has settled in an old coastal village almost lost under the snow, buildings now bursting from the swell of followers they have accumulated. Most of the skalds that were there when she wandered in weeks ago have gone off to share the news; she doesn’t know why she hasn’t yet done so herself. But there is something coming. Dalla can feel it deep to her bones. She would like to see whatever it will be; that is reason enough to delay.  
“You have more songs of Kodi.”  
Once more, not a question.  
“Yes, I do,” she assures the berserker. She wonders what he would make of the woman herself, as fierce and intense as he. They’d either battle to the death or take the other to bed, and for a heartbeat she considers aiding such a thing.  
The warrior goes silent again.  
“Would you like to meet her?” She asks before she can stop herself. Bad idea, very bad idea.  
Jakob squints at her, nose and cheeks red as his hair.  
“I was going to leave soon, and I know where we might run into Kodi. I think she actually lives on this very coast working for jarl-”  
“Yes.”  
Uh. That was easy.  
And he leaves just like that, back to overseeing the training of the group’s budding army. She watches him go, wolf head swaying in the biting wind.

  
That evening, she wears the thick blue cloak and its matching pin again. For luck. She asks Brunhilde for help with her braids. That sick feeling of doom in the pit of her gut is back, and her hands tremble too much to handle her own hair. It won’t affect her voice. She has trained too much for nerves, she reminds herself like a prayer.

She doesn’t eat anything, just downs her ale before she starts. Bad thing to do on an empty stomach, but tonight, she takes her time. For all the strange things Dalla has seen with this growing clan, she genuinely loves stories. Sharing them with people, learning theirs. It’s a wild and weird world, and she treasures every facet she gets the chance to see. 

So she chooses the Nine Days. 

It’s the longest poem she has composed herself. She doesn’t think it’s all accurate, but the crux of the matter is this: a story doesn’t have to be true. The poet shares their information, twists dreams and facts- to uplift, to make glorious. The poem lives on forever, with the people who hear it.

On the First Day, she starts, Kodi heard a terrible cry. One of the dís, alone and hurt from a terrible bloodbath, crawled to her and died in her arms. The goddess’ sister, wounded as well, appeared and bade her swear an oath to avenge them. The room hushes, the fire burns low as she sings. While the log are consumed by the flames, Kodi finds the ogre responsible for such terror. Thirst for righteous battle overtakes her, and she launches into a deadly duel with the monster. But the two are well matched, and for eight long days and eight nights they fight.

For every log added to the pit, Dalla describes the rising of the sun, of the moon. The hall listens, tensions running high. She laces her anxiety, her feelings of doom within every word. And at last, on the ninth day, she brings the tale to its end. Kodi, bleeding and wounded, cuts through the soft belly of the ogre. With wild eyes she holds the head aloft, fulfilling her oath to the dís.

There is no cheering when she is done. The mood isn’t somber, but pensive. They can all feel that something is creeping closer, merciless like the dawn. But she barely has the time to think on this- a hand tugs at her elbow.

She’s sitting near the head of the table before she realizes she’s even been moved. Rachel and Jakob are softly snoring in a corner, one surrounded by her own pile of followers, the other alone

“Finally we meet, child,” Jósepr says, tearing her out of her thoughts. “Much too late, it seems. My brother tells us you’ll be leaving us soon.”

Dalla glances at Jón, deep in his cups,singing along with whatever drinking song this half of the hall has just launched into.

“I have been here almost three weeks, Ásvaldr,” she replies carefully. He looks… pleased, with the use of his self-given title.

“And what have you learned?”

That this is not a man you lie to, she thinks. That he is gathering an army. That he would burn down the world for the three people around him. That he is, also, slightly drunk. So is she.

“Not many new stories, actually.”

His cheek twitches. He leans forward, hands clasped under his heavy grey cloak. Mirror to the one Jón gave her, the one she wears right now, she realizes.

“You chose some very specific songs. You know the hero herself?”

“They were requests. And yes.”

She circles her hands around her harp underneath the table.

“You can feel it, can’t you? You know something is coming, inexorable and deadly. Our world is ending, skald. What will you do when Ragnarok comes? Will you still sing as Yggdrasil chokes and withers?”

“I’ll write songs about it,” comes the easy answer. “While Midgard burns I’ll find myself a nice, tall mountain, to watch it from before I die.”

“What of your heroes? What of your Valkyrie? What of the gods and their ilk?”

This isn’t a conversation, she thinks. It’s a trap, and it’s closing in fast.

“Everything must die,” she shrugs, hands wringing beneath her blue cloak. “If I am no hero able to keep Hel from her due, why should I fret?”

Jósepr opens his mouth to speak, when the table crashes to the ground. Jón lies sprawled on the floor, hands raised and waving with the song he still, somehow, keeps barking along to.

Dalla needs to get out. She hasn’t been compensated, but that feels irrelevant. Unwilling to wait, she gathers up her things; weaving and twisting between drunken revellers. Barely breathing in the cold winter air, she hears panicked cries. Lights are coming up the shore. A raiding party? Here? But there’s just one boat landing through the mist, silent warriors at the helm.

One of the clan’s sentinels pushes her aside to rush into the hall, his braids whips in the night. She stumbles, clutching at her harp, drops backwards into a pile of leaves.

“I should have guessed I’d find you in the crow’s nest.”

She knows the hand offered to help her up- strong, bearing the thin web of scars any warrior worth their salt gains. Dalla grins.

“And I you, vinr. What brings you here?”

Kodi shakes her head, auburn braids catching the light. She’s worried, the skald realizes. Fear in her eyes, skin flushed in the cold.

“Something bad,” the shield maiden glances at her companions. “Politics.”

And with certainty colder than ice in her veins, Dalla knows. This is only going to end in blood and tears.

“I’m leaving with you.”

Kodi nods once, determined.

“We have much to discuss once this is done.”

The group of warriors files into the longhouse, and Dalla hurries to their ship.

* * *

When the warriors walk out, Kodi pushing Jósepr forward, Dalla sees how the crowd ripples. She knows the tell tale signs of archers on the shore, the way blades glint in the night. All the while Jósepr sings, a hymn in the dark.

As the boat launches into the night, she sees the arrows and their burning trails. She hears the cries of people in the water, nails and axes hacking at the wood. She helps as she can, stabbing assailants with her new blade, putting out fires. Unending waves; battle she’s thoroughly unsuited for.

She fights until someone tugs on the hem of her cloak, and she hangs over the edge of the ship. No time to think. There’s a crash, and wood splinters like straw all around. Her world becomes ice; the water cold, so cold, and all she can think about is how this is going to ruin her harp.

Things fall into the water, currents pushing and pulling her onto the rocks. She refuses to die like this. She grabs for a piece of flotsam, head bobbing above the water and drifts.

Eyes closing with the seawater, she barely sees the jarl’s sailors captured or slaughtered on the shore. The fires and their screams a sick melody that plays through the night; cradling her in the water.


End file.
